Magic Squares
by aragonite
Summary: A "filler" for THE FINAL PROBLEM, which should fit within the world of my upcoming book MOON-CURSERS.  Sherlock Holmes is trying to keep ahead of Moriarty.  This is never an easy task.
1. Chapter 1

_"My dear Watson, Professor Moriarty is not a man who lets the grass grow under his feet." _

Tea steamed in the pot by the window—Mrs. Hudson's welcome back from his trip abroad. In return he had passed to her a sachet of lavender and was trying to hold the peace at Baker Street by not soothing his nerves in ways that would damage the housekeeper's. That meant bullets were out; it was a deep pity. He wondered if Moriarty's people would hesitate to attack him if they could hear another V.R. being added to the walls.

**If change in plan, come to Oxford rendezvous.**

**If no change, I will see you at our agreed location.**

Sherlock Holmes dropped the day's _Agony Column_—and with it Patterson's ciphered ad-to the breakfast-table with a pensive expression.1 It added more years to his face than the absent Watson would have wished—Holmes personally had little concern for trying to look younger than one's years. This was just as well. He was ageing at a sorry rate this fateful spring.

Patterson's caution was justifiable, but standing in the comfort of his own rooms with soft spring airs breezing open the lace curtain (but not standing too close)…Holmes wondered if it was advisable to make the rendezvous.

They were all being watched; Holmes sensed eyes in all directions as soon as his foot left the French ferry and set upon English soil. At this point, no one had yet accosted him, but Patterson was in a precarious position. Perhaps even more precarious than himself. Holmes did not pretend to omniscience, but Moriarty was still struggling to divine the identity of Holmes' 'Man in the Yard.'

Patterson's importance was still minuscule in the scheme of things. To all appearances the man was beneath his reptilian contempt: a prematurely aged, brittle man bearing scars in his mind and soul from too much work under deep cover. That he had been regulated to tasks of the most superficial importance spoke of that damage. He had no appearance of being a man in charge or responsible of a case of longstanding powers. Common gossip as well as reports said the man was little respected by his own peers. Even the hard-shaped older police avoided his company. Years of work had gone into this deception, and Holmes had helped it every step of the way.

It was another reason for which he was grateful for the tapering-off relations between himself and Watson. Watson was a good man; his wife admirable. The two deserved peace and quiet. They certainly did not deserve to be under the chill gaze of a criminal spider within his web.

There was a bedrock weakness to Moriarty's brain: the man believed Holmes worked largely alone and had little use for the Watsons of this world. What love did Moriarty keep of sentimentality, or affection and deep friendship? Nothing, for he had no comprehension of such things. That Holmes had all but stopped his connexions to Watson meant to Moriarty's brilliant if flawed mind, that Watson was no longer important to Holmes, if he had ever been.

A biographer, a tamed teller of tales, a blind harper in the halls perhaps—he left Watson alone because he had mistaken this war as that of a purely intellectual one.

Holmes hoped Moriarty did not see the mistake in this assumption, and yet to him it was as clear a logic as seeing through clean water. Against a war of pure wit, Holmes would be doomed to fail under Moriarty's hand because Moriarty had an army at his command. Therefore, if he were to even those odds, he must needs keep a different sort of army. An army that was invisible to Moriarty's fathom.

That would be the bonds of the irrational, the honest friendliness, and the intangible.

_Moriarty has enjoyed this game as much as I, but for different reasons. I have long craved a challenge of my worth…but for him? He sees me no more as an intriguing little distraction from his usual work. What a mind, to be so cold! It is all a game of Magic Squares to him-the beauty of finished numbers inside cages and boxes, creating a pattern...while I must spoil his lovely arithmetic by taking his numbers from him. War is the only outcome of this insult to his intellect. And if he truly understood what I was planning, he would act with far more speed than he is now. I would not have been given the courtesy of a greeting and a chance to back away.  
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A glass bottle tumbled out of a passing cab, it burst and he flinched. His reflexes were strung high, not unlike piano wire. He was still wearied from his trip abroad. The notes he had sent Watson probably misled him into thinking he was still there. Yet not a moment after sending the second wire in Nimes, a strong feeling of apprehension had caused him to change his plan.

London's April was colder than that of France's and Holmes felt the thin chill sinking into his bones; the Professor's visit had unsettled him to his very core. He needed to rest but he also needed to have some peace and quiet.

If only this were but a confrontation between himself and Moriarty! But Moriarty had achieved his status as criminal mastermind by manipulating many people to work as one unit under his control. Each of his men stood as a separate tendril upon a monstrous web. Holmes' employment upon others was nothing upon this level of organisation. He used the small, the forgotten, and those who were weak if clever and able to remain invisible. And Holmes had no interest in risking another's life.

At last, Holmes weighed no better or worse in his mind, and reached for his hat. It was turning the midday of a clear and warm April day, and there would be some bit of refuge within the mass of four million citizens.

…"_I went out about midday to transact some business in Oxford Street."_

His luck held for many long minutes. He knew the city well, but the living macrocosm was disturbed; his nerves prickled under the strain of mere walking as each step created and destroyed infinite possibilities of his personal future. The chaunters' cries rang against his ears, pressing more and more feverishly for sales against their rivals. Holmes tightened his lips, knowing the evening papers' release would be a repeat of this chaos. He hurried as best as he was able through the uneven stream of humanity.

He stopped several times, merely waiting in discreet places where a single man might observe without being himself being observed. It was an old habit of his, and the familiarity comforted his unease. Not for the first time he thought of Watson's steady presence at his side. Give the man a task and he would do his best, single-mindedly and hard-headedly.

How he missed him.

Even now his old friend was an absence in his rooms like a missing pipe or broken lamp by his chemistry table. So accustomed to his habits, Holmes would reach out his hand for either object without thought; he found himself doing the same for Watson.

But these were not the old days. Watson was better fit with his slow-mending wounds dissolving with time, but he was older. They both were.

Missing Watson may have helped to save his life. His nostalgic loneliness kept him moving—wandering, almost, without appearance of aim. And his nervous sensation had not dispersed as he passed the busy corner of Bentink Street to Wellbeck Street.

_As I passed the corner which leads from Bentinck Street on to the Welbeck Street crossing a two-horse van furiously driven whizzed round and was on me like a flash. I sprang for the foot-path and saved myself by the fraction of a second._

When the van rounded the same corner on all but two wheels, Holmes was already moving quickly; he moved faster, sprinting for the other side even as he clutched his walking-stick for futile protection. Eight metal-shod hooves pounded the brick all the way to the lost Westbourne River beneath. He reached safety without a moment to spare; about him people cried out in variations of indignation and fear. A woman screamed. A man swore. The hot breath of foam-flecked horses passed by a hair, steaming the back of his sweating neck.

It was over as quickly as it started. Holmes blended in with the dazed crowd, listening to the confused demands for the van's number or had anyone seen them before; what of the horses?

Holmes said nothing, absorbing the dwindling chaos.

He didn't recognise the horses, but he had gotten their symbolism all the same.

They had been a perfectly matched pair of blacks.

The preferred horses for funerals.

His hands were too tightly wrapped about his stick. He made himself stop and release one hand; he reached for his handkerchief. He wiped both hot and cold sweat off his face.

There would be no going to Oxford now. He was not sorry; in this storm-charged atmosphere it would be unsafe for himself and for Patterson. Patterson would merely go along as they had originally planned.

He would keep to the pavement, and take a slightly different route. Already he thought twice of heading back to Baker Street.

No, not Baker Street. Not safe for himself or for Mrs. Hudson and whoever would be helping her. Best to keep the personal warfare private. He would go to Mycroft. Eventually.

Holmes swallowed and adjusted his hat and collar, shot his cuffs briskly and started walking. No cab. A cab would be foolish if he could not trust the driver. He would have to make other arrangements.

PC Church was too long a policeman not to know Sherlock Holmes by sight. Every form of plainclothed detective needed constables with them for their work, and every detective needed to put upon the advice of the man sooner or later; Church had seen the man twice in the line of duty and countless times as he was patrolling. The man was hard to miss; he was a striking gentleman, and Church thought of hawks whenever he caught that pale, thin face among the crowd. Hawks were hot-blooded birds, but they had cool eyes.

Vere Street meant much to PC Church; it was amusing but true that his name was tied to his reason for loving his beat; Marybone Church (in all its variations of spelling and pronunciation), had history that drew people right and left. Plenty of curious folk came from all over the world to see the chapel; the Duchess of Portland had married herself here back about a hundred years ago, leaving her name behind for Bentinck Street; people were drawn to that too. Men and women liked a good story, and she had been the richest woman in the country. Possibly a bit of a daft collector, but she had been the keeper of the Arundel Marbles, and Church could expect to hear the gawpers talking about the pieces—the closer one got to the chapel, the more the gawping. With spring men thought of love and women of marriage; in between was the sermon, and the draw of the memory of Vere Street's children such as the holy Frederick Dennison Maurice.

Church was a self-taught historian (he knew which side buttered his bread), and someday he would have to find out if it were true that _his_ Vere Street was named after Aubrey de Vere, who likened one of Maurice's famous sermons to eating pea soup with a fork. If so, it would be a tit-bit of cheerful gossip good for a tip or three. For now he strolled his beat, being sure to look neat and trim within his long moustaches and buttoned-up coat.

Today had been a profitable day for pleasing the sight-seers. The warmish weather had brought in a few groups—young people mostly—and using the excuse of April and a little history lesson as cause to display the new season's colours. Church was fond of these, for if one was properly respectful they were generous with their rewards. Young men liked to impress their ladies, themselves, and each other in no particular order. The extra coins rattled in the little bag he kept sewn inside his coat; the three shillings meant the week's butter and flour were taken care of and the Missus would be pleased. They might have it in their potatoes tomorrow.

Church was thinking of potatoes because his shift was ending soon and his feet hurt. It therefore surprised him to hear a whistle go off across the street and down towards the commemorative sign of Rysbrack's.2

He was surprised just a bit to see the ruckus was coming from Sherlock Holmes.

_I kept to the pavement after that, Watson, but as I walked down Vere Street a brick came down from the roof of one of the houses and was shattered to fragments at my feet. I called the police and had the place examined. There were slates and bricks piled up on the roof preparatory to some repairs, and they would have me believe that the wind had toppled over one of these._

The gentleman was standing stiff as iron with his back up against the wall of one of the fancy brick houses, hands spread apart at his sides as if he could press himself into the wall. Church trotted forward, his eyes narrowing to a bushy frown for it seemed odd that there be such a large pool of no-people around him. Vere Street was busier than this at any given time, yet here he was standing by himself like he had the plague.

"What's this now, Mr. Holmes?" He called out before he finished puffing up the street.

Mr. Holmes shot a pale face up and there was something tight and ferocious about his eyes. Calm as ever, cool as you please but he wasn't happy.

"Constable Church," he declared—the man always sounded like one of Church's old Sunday school teachers. "I believe there may be a problem." As Church joined his side, he moved the toe of his left shoe to the side; fragments of brick rattled against the concrete and set stone of the pavement.

Church looked without fully understanding. "Looks as though you got lucky, Mr. Holmes."

Holmes almost—but not quite—blinked. "Yes," he drawled slowly. "One might think so. And yet I would like to have the cause for this…fortuitous accident…examined."

Church had almost forgotten how Holmes talked. He re-listened to the words in his head until he was certain he understood it. "Are you suspecting foul play, Mr. Holmes?" Even as he asked this, he lifted his own hand and whistled for the next man over—ought to be Jamison today.

"I am saying that at this point my brush with death does not have a clear cause. For my own satisfaction, you would understand that I would like to rule out foul play."

Church thought this over, even as Jamison panted up to his side. The two policemen discussed the particulars quickly, and Jamison volunteered to enter the building and examine the roof. Through it all, Holmes stood stock-still, his hands upon his walking-stick as though he intended to use it. Twice he glanced back up to the roof, and Church was almost certain he saw the man shrink backwards each time.

"I'm sure there's nothing, sir." Church said the moment Jamison tapped on the front door and was given entrance. "Repairs are always going on in London; sometimes they don't hire the right sort of worker for the job I fear. Mistakes, they happen."

"Mistakes most certainly do happen." Holmes answered back. He looked as though he were speaking of something else. Those cool grey eyes were far away into the crowd. "Nevertheless, I feel I should satisfy my curiosity."

Church chuckled lightly. Laugh it off, he'd been advised time and time again. Laugh it off. Even if it is something, and it probably isn't most of the time, you don't want people scared. "As you say, sir, but accidents happen to people as much as the blackguards do."

"Hallo!"

Both Church and Holmes craned straight up; Jamison was leaning forward, the winds battering the folds of his coat as he stretched his long neck down.

"There's no one up here, gennulmen!" Jamison screamed down over the rising wind. "Just some bricks and slates piled up for repairs! Wind must've knocked a bit over!"

"That," Holmes grumbled, "would be a considerable wind indeed."

"These things happen." Church assured him. "Especially if they was placed wrong."

Holmes turned his head slowly, and measured Church with his cool, grey hawk's eyes.

"So you say." He answered quietly. "Nevertheless I expect you to make a full report to your division, Constable."

"A report? For this?" Church started to laugh, but stopped. "You're serious."

"As you say. It appears to be an accident. But accidents kill as much as blackguards." Holmes sounded as if he were biting off each word with great effort. "It would bring me comfort, Constable, if a report would cause greater caution upon this street." He lifted one swift, white hand as Church opened his mouth. "I am an unattached man, Constable. And I have swift reflexes. I hesitate to think of what would have happened if it had been a woman or child walking past this same spot."

Church went white to his chin-strap. He swallowed hard. "Yes, yes you're quite right about that sir." He pulled out his notebook and pencil with due haste. "At what time would you estimate this accident?"

_Of course I knew better, but I could prove nothing._

1 Ciphered notes, telegrams and Agony Column ads were quite common in an era of telegrams and hand-delivered notes—both open to the scrutiny of strangers and it was a way of passing confidential information in plain view..

2 John Michael Rysbrack, a famous Flemish artist who died at his Vere Street address in 1770.


	2. Such is the Feud

"_I took a cab after that and reached my brother's rooms in Pall Mall, where I spent the day." _

Only a man such as Mycroft Holmes took comfort and safety from being utterly predictable.

But then, there was only one Mycroft Holmes.

The large man stepped from his Whitehall office without a sound, graceful despite his weight and not-inconsiderable height. He walked patiently across rooms carpeted with designs from across the globe, a different world within each room. These were the rooms in which the truly powerful meetings took place; the filtration between politicians who sorted out the needed and not-needed affairs before they were sent to Parliament or Palace.

In four breaths he traversed Africa's deserts on a Bedouin rug and ignored the maneless lion stuffed in the corner. On the wall rested a clay tablet, beautifully inscribed:

**If you hear hoofprints, do not look for zebras.**

So many politicians needed that advice; the room was popular and that was but one of its reasons.

With a single step out of Africa he was crossing the woollen gold and green jungle of Sumatra, avoiding the long, slim table and chairs made of mahogany bamboo, and paying the respect of a fellow traveler to a gleaming black and silver cockerel captured in oils. The Meji Emperor's experts had come here late in the year of 1889, following their young ruler's command to learn the ways of Naval power. Mycroft remembered how they had chosen this room above the others for their tea-time discussions, and admired the rooster's show of strength. A letter addressed from Sultan Alauddin Shah of Aceh, King of Aceh and Samudra, to Elizabeth rested under glass—the only obtrusive example of three-dimensional art in the room besides the furniture.

Mycroft stopped long enough to ponder the letter beneath the glass. Others commented on the realistic facsimile of a letter written in 1602. Only he and select others knew the letter was genuine. Where better to hide something in plain sight? Pretty though it was, no one would steal an imitation.

This was but one of Mycroft's little touches upon Whitehall. The Diplomatic Assemblies had their own circles and their meeting-halls, but it made common sense to create places where the world's dignitaries would draw comfort (or perhaps intimidation) in the same place where England made her day to day decisions on paper.

In each room was a statement—always subtle, always layered. In Sumatra was a framed silk calligraphy of _Samudra_ in gold paint. It was the Sanskrit for the island, but that was not as important as what Samudra _meant_: "Gathering together of waters, sea, or ocean."

Whitehall was where many waters met. How better that they do it underneath a neutral ground, within small representations of their own lands, with meaningful symbols of their lands around them. The created atmosphere was conducive to productive thought, and a mind cast to the future ensured the reminders of his peoples' past hung on the four walls and floor and even the ceiling: China's room held a red silk kite of a bat in the corner, its silk teeth bared against rude intruders.

Sumatra melted behind him; Sweden possessed a carpet as blue as the deepest of seas, trimmed with golden chains of tiny isles and fine fringes of land. Books demonstrated this room. A leather-bound and monstrously-sized copy of Tacitus sat on its own table, vellum pages open upon that ancient man's accounting of the _Suiones tribe. _ Black fox-skins, their main export to Rome, hung at one wall in glory. Mycroft appreciated the symmetry of the skins placed close to an ivory carving of a longship; Britain was the supreme sea power and had been since Elizabeth. But once upon a time, Sweden had held that title...and had held it for millenia, not centuries. Britain would be a very long time in catching up...if ever. But at least they could comfort themselves with the example of the very best.

A Vendel-era helmet, battered by time's teeth more than the enemy's sword, stared sightlessly and unnervingly across the microcosm that was his world. Below its mount rested an engraving from ancient history:

**Þæt ys sio fæhðo and se feond-scipe**

Mycroft breathed the cool London evening as he crossed the front steps. A commissionaire tapped his uniform cap in respect and offered to call for a cab. Mycroft said no.

From Whitehall he normally went straight to the Diogenes, and this dusky evening was no exception. He never bothered to hide where he was. The very uniqueness of his post ensured he be as predictable as possible. Luckily for the rest of the world, Mycroft thrived in being predictable, and save for a few minor indiscretions (he felt it was important to have a few every year), he was as straight in his paths as a train upon the tracks.

The wind swirled about his legs and he slowed, waiting for a lull into the crowd to cross the street.

"I beg your pardon!"

"I am sorry, sir. It was most unintentional."

Mycroft hadn't seen Lestrade until that moment, but he was hardly surprised. The crowd was full of above-average-sized men, and the faint surprise in the detective's voice proclaimed he had seen Mycroft no better.

The man Lestrade had accidentally jostled returned to his perusal of the evening paper, willing himself to block out the recent unpleasantness. Lestrade was just as willing to learn invisibility. He stood huddled within his long coat—a coat that should have been replaced months ago. Mycroft idly wondered about the level of debt the man was in, recalling Sherlock's comment about ill children.

"_Good-evening, Mr. Lestrade."_ Mycroft would have said, had the man not desired to be unseen. _"Departmental meetings are so tedious, are they not? Dullness combined with the usual fears of being bitten by one's superiors…a decent ale is a reasonable reward for surviving them."_

Lestrade looked up into the darkling sky of the city as giants swirled about him. He smelled of the less-pleasant gas-lamps in the basement of the very building Mycroft had just left. There _had_ been a meeting involving the Home Office today. A meeting not deemed important enough to bother Mycroft about. Mycroft glanced about with his peripheral, seeing no one else that he recognized from the records of the Yard. That meant whatever the outcome of the meeting, Lestrade had left alone. Not a fortuitous indication of one's professional career.

The lamp-lighters stepped one by one down the street, throwing haphazard pools of flame against the streets. He was all small and spare and slim and dark where Mycroft was the opposite. They even dressed apart, within the best of what their divergent incomes could afford. Lestrade had changed his cuffs and collar whilst at work; the clean white of starched cloth glowed in the dwindling light. Mycroft knew from observation that Lestrade kept an eternal supply of clean replacements in his office.

There was a hard, weary set of the man's mouth that matched his unseeing eyes. Lestrade's meeting had gone ill and he was smarting. Lestrade was preparing for a sacrificial altar.

He was a sensible choice for culling. He was the best because of his determination, not his intelligence. The Yard operated under the Home Office, and thus wanted men who were smart enough to bow to the word from the higher offices. Lestrade did not have that sort of intelligence. He must have stepped over someone's lines today. That stifled expression was too similar to that of a first-level clerk upon finding they had revealed an indiscretion about a departmental mentor.

A horse bus emerged, slowed in a thickening fog, and for a wonder it was half-empty. Several people boarded the brightly-coloured contraption without a word, the men stoically taking the seats up top and under the elements while the few women and children sheltered below. Lestrade remained standing, too oblivious within his own internal world to notice Mycroft but at last, the small man shook himself like a bird beneath rainfall, and pulled out a cab-whistle. Somewhat curious despite himself (he shared his brother's need for amusement), Mycroft watched as the policeman lifted a beaten whistle to his lips and winded.

Mycroft admitted to fascination. A police inspector could hardly afford the luxury of a hansom.1

Sherlock preferred the hansom and its ability to show the city around him. He was a loving observer of London, fascinated by its smallest eddies and he liked the fact that the hansom could navigate faster than any other method. For a man who preferred the telegram over the note, the hansom was his logical conveyance.

Likewise, Lestrade wanted to go home without being around another living person, and he did so with haste. He simply took the nearest available vehicle to Paddington Street despite the high cost to his purse. He was too deep within the discomfort of his own thoughts to pay mind to his budget. As Mycroft watched, the hansom clipped away with its blank-eyed passenger.

A man who would spend on a swift ride home but not on a warm coat was a troubled man. Mycroft made a note to look into the affairs at the Yard in the morning. Lestrade's reputation was of confidence, even when he was wrong about something. Here he was behaving like a Hindoo pariah.

Mycroft took himself to the Diogenes and ate an unadorned meal of roast with potatoes. In concession to spring he enjoyed a green onion-salad with tiny feathers of red oak-leaf lettuce and curls of tender watercress.

The cress reminded him of the French markets of his youth, when the green-grocers rolled the dark green leaves within their bundles of lighter-tasting lettuces for the morning purchases. He missed the personal exposure to the outside world, but then he knew what the price would be when he accepted his post.

He travelled within his lines, straight as a tram, but within his mind he travelled in every way conceivable. For him numbers sang; for his eyes statistics and markets opened their treasures, and under the retention of his memory England's equity remained stable.

Politicians came and went; rulers passed to forgetfulness or they were assassinated. England was still a jewel of worth and so many greedy eyes coveted anything of hers that it was a wonder anyone of importance could work in safety. Wars were brewing and brewing with enthusiasm. England would be involved yet.

But no one, not even the ruler of the most Anglo-hating country in the world, would harm Mycroft Holmes.

No one wanted to seize control of a shattered country.

It was Mycroft's habit to leave his club before eight; he did so, and this time walked home—not an unusual event as the evening lacked rain. Thick fog crept upon the streets, smelling of both the Thames and the factory smokes that added the slimy yellow texture to the fog. Pall Mall gleamed with bright, clean lamps and religiously polished metal. A surgeon's red lamp hung like a sullen red eye in the distance. Mycroft thrust his key into his lock in the front and stepped in with only a faint pause.

Upstairs he saw Mr. Melas' room firmly shut. Soft musical syllables rose and fell on the other side; Melas did adore reading aloud. Tonight he must be in a restless mood; Antipater of Sidon was positively Old Testament in his loquacious attitudes.

Mycroft loosened his coat and prepared to thrust his key into his lock, but hesitated. He waited the span of a breath and merely pressed the door open.

His brother was sitting in the guest-chair, long legs drawn up as was his thinking habit since childhood. Neither man was surprised that Mycroft intuited his presence before walking in.

"You appear to be in straits, brother." Mycroft rumbled.

"As always, you are correct." Sherlock answered just as quietly. "And for that matter, you would be wise to hesitate before leaving your silhouette before the windows, no matter how well drawn they are. I have been a popular man of late, and an assassin's fevered imagination might mistake you."

Mycroft grunted and hung up his coat, turned and locked the door. "Tell me what has happened."

Sherlock did.

The fire burnt low; Sherlock hopped to his feet and rebuilt the embers to hot red coals. It never took him long to recover his energy after a trial—and today had been a trial. Mycroft remained sitting with his hands drawn across his waistcoat. Sherlock's narrative was typical Sherlock: finely detailed but to the point.

"How unlike the professor to tip his hand." Mycroft said at last. "From what you have said to me of him in the past, this is a most uncharacteristic choice of actions."

"If you mean by which he took the trouble to warn me off, I agree." Sherlock's grey eyes were clouded with apprehension. "And there was some risk to himself for coming to my rooms."

"You were armed." Mycroft reminded him. "Clearly this was more than a meeting of the minds, Sherlock."

Sherlock agreed by nodding once, sharply. He was troubled as his thoughts multiplied within each other, over and over.

"Moriarty is a brilliant man, but he is still just one man. And he has powerful clients." Mycroft rose long enough to pour himself a drink—Sherlock had already helped himself with a well-watered brandy. "You have made yourself too powerful, Sherlock. You now have but one competitor in the field, and that is a man who is your inevitable enemy."

"Competitor." Sherlock mused. "An unexpected comparison, Mycroft."

"You were ever the idealist of us, brother." Mycroft said it kindly. "You had the luxury of being exposed to Plebian thought and different minds. I was trained for other things. The first lesson I ever learned was that Monarchs do not look for kindness."

Sherlock sighed. "I know."

The brothers fell silent before the crackling fire. It was some long minutes and two brandy-snifters later that Mycroft spoke again.

"You are the future, Sherlock. Moriarty is the past. In his day anyone of importance consulted experts who were expected to be criminals. From Bankers to barons and all levels of royalty, everyone needed the likes of Moriarty to work their wonders. You represent a newer time, and a newer thinking. If this newer way is to survive, then you-yourself or at least your methods-need to survive too."

"Moriarty seeks to keep the world within tight lines." Sherlock practically spat. Anger glittered in his eyes against the spots of high colour upon his cheeks. "He seeks a rigid method without flexibility. There is no room to breathe in his ways."

Mycroft almost smiled, for Sherlock could forgive much, but not the rigidity of thought.

"He is fighting for his crown, Sherlock. He knows that if you are to destroy him, it will be _you_ the heads of state consult for their solutions. And that is intolerable. His sort causes wars; you seek to prevent. The two of you will meet no more than the two poles."

"Brother," Sherlock smiled with thin-lipped fondness. His emotions were always restrained, for that was how the brothers could bear it. "You give incontestable advice."

"If only that were my position in life. Then I daresay I would have a more interesting time of it. Yet I would be worried for my life as well as yours."

Sherlock chuckled lightly. "No one would dare assassinate you for the fearsome consequence. A rival country would no more order your death than they would the murder of the one man at the bank who can make sense of the books."

Mycroft grunted his agreement and settled back, hands folded and fingers dovetailed within each other on his large belly. "I may be safe, but that is because my oath declares me loyal to the government _no matter what the government decides_, Sherlock. There is always the question of what I know and how I would serve the ruling party. I did not choose this post for myself, but it was my duty. Better that one of us lives completely within his lights."

Sherlock sighed once, and it was a thin, barely audible sound against the low snap of the anthracite in the grate. He was looking more than tired. He looked tired to death.

"You are too indispensable to kill, and indeed no one would kill the only man who can make sense of British governmental trade lines, politics, and the thousands of threads of ridiculous matters that tie all together. But that does not mean you have forgotten how to play tricks."

Mycroft chuckled at last, and his thoughtful grey eyes stirred—the way mercury glimmers when it has been forcibly moved from one vessel into another.

"I forget little, Sherlock. How may I be of service?"

"I seem to recall you once had a remarkable starting-post in coordinating the licensed cabs throughout the city."

Mycroft chuckled again. "You recall correctly…" He stopped for a moment. "But you need to really talk to the good doctor before you draft him into this plan."

"That is the next thing on my list, brother." Sherlock smiled.

And they talked until the fires were all but dead. Sherlock had fallen asleep, worn out from the attack upon his nerves. Mycroft watched him, and judged his brother warm enough this close to the grate. The silence between the two was comfortable and steady. Since childhood the two had been able to exist for hours without the need to talk.

Several hours later, Sherlock stirred. He stretched a bit and examined his collar and cuffs for stains. Mycroft ordered a light breakfast up, and they ate quietly. Just as quietly they left the building together. In the middle of the street they parted ways.

Mycroft watched his brother go, a thin, erect frame of singular power in a large city.

Unbidden yet inevitably, his mind cast back to when he had stood before the Swedish helmet in Whitehall. The inscription in English translated all to well to the situation:

**Such is the feud, the foeman's rage,**

And because he thought of the first line, he could not help but recall the rest of the poem:

**death-hate of men: so I deem it sure**

**that the Swedish folk will seek us home**

**for this fall of their friends, the fighting-****Scylfings****,**

**when once they learn that our warrior leader**

**lifeless lies, who land and hoard**

**ever defended from all his foes,**

**furthered his folk's weal, finished his course**

**a hardy hero.**

The lines were drawn. Mycroft could see it as clearly as he could read the world within a stock market. His brother stood upon one side of the chess-board, Moriarty another. In his mind Mycroft could see the different countries lined up, each country choosing their loyalty to one man or the other…the rest of the world waited, wanting to see which would be the winner before they declared their loyalty.

Sherlock was right in his actions, but the proving it would be hard, and the odds were high his proof would be fatal. Mycroft knew this, and accepted it. There were many things worse than death. Many things. For his brother, failure was the first of them.

Sherlock could afford to die, but he could not afford to fail.

Nor, Mycroft knew, could England. If he did fail, then it would be upon Mycroft's shoulders to create the future.

Mycroft was not optimistic about his abilities in that project.

1 Keefauver, Brad. 1982. "Very Hansom of You, Mr. Holmes", A look at the old two-wheeler and its place in the recorded cases of Mr. Sherlock Holmes by Brad Keefauver _ "__Cabs could be hired by distance or time, sometimes at the passenger's choice. The fares for distance at the turn of the century were a shilling for the first two miles, then a sixpence for each mile or part of a mile after that. To travel further than the four-mile radius from Charing Cross, the cost rose to a shilling a mile. Items such as luggage and waiting time cost extra, at a fixed scale of charges."_


	3. Drawing the Net

**Commercial Street:**

PC Church was dead-tired. He fell into step with the rest of London and made his way for home, too poor for a cab but rich with the comfort of a netted sack swinging from his gloved fingers. A quarter-pound of butter and a week's worth of flour1 would brighten tomorrow's supper. It was possible they could even spare a pat of that butter on the morning porridge.

He was off duty, if such a thing ever happened to a policeman. Church doubted it. His father had never taken time off; nor had any of the men in his family that wore any uniform. The uniform stayed on, if only in the mind. At least they could remove their uniforms when off-duty in _this_ enlightened day and age. He approached the humble flats nested over each other like so many dishes above the hundreds of tiny shops of Commercial Street. The closer he was to his own, the louder the local children yelped. He belonged to the people here, just as they belonged to him.

From a full street away, one of his brethren lifted a white-gloved hand in a distant greeting. Church returned the wave. It looked like Goldsworthy; Church frowned in ready compassion. Goldsworthy was usually paired with the other Cornishmen on this side (there were enough of them as disgruntled former miners that the Yard wanted coppers who knew the language), but Jory had been laid up from a clumsy garrotter almost a fortnight and Gay was still under reprimand for taking his wife to hospital when he was due to work. That left Roach and Tyack for the night-shift, but here was Goldsworthy all on his ownself.

Better that Goldie be the one alone. There was only one of the man, but he was large enough to be three average Constables put together. He was possibly the only copper on the beat that could walk by himself without fear of molesting bludgers.

A vegetable-cart wheeled away the evening's losses for a pig-farm. Church knew the driver from childhood and grinned when a bundle flew through the air in his direction: a half-good leek and two twigs of celery with a leftover sprig of parsley was his reward. Mrs. Church would be pleased as the flour and butter. Church's belly grumbled at the thought of celery soup for the night. He'd no idea what she was planning, but she could always work out a miracle with an iron pot by the grate. For that matter, so could he.

Commercial Street's urchins slithered past as he circled a disgrace of a pot-hole. He recognised them all, and mentally noted which the orphans were and which had different troubles. Rich or poor, the poorest of all were the motherless and fatherless—regardless of who else had the raising of the children. They were all united in singing some silly-minded little ditty at the top of their lungs:

"_There is no lady in the land_

_Is half so sweet as Sally;_

_She is the darling of my heart,_

_And she lives in our alley…"_

Church coughed and waved his large hand in the air, sending children shrieking with laughter even as they scattered, still singing.

"The only Sally you're old enough for is Sally the stray cat!" He growled. The older boys flipped him saucy grins and they were off, melting into the dwindling evening crowd. _Children_, Church snorted. _Always trying to prove they're grown._

He fished his key out of a small loop sewn inside his pocket, and unlocked the front door. A quick check showed the absence of rats in the hall—hopefully the rat-catcher had done the job this time. They were all getting tired of the fuss, the horrible little terriers the man carried, and the reek of too-strong peppermint oil to repel the vermin.

Boards creaked under his clamshells, and he was quick to pause at their narrow door, balancing the vegetables, sack, and keys amongst only two hands.

"There you are!" The door opened and who was on the other side but his brother, Matthew Church, fresh-faced from a day off the grueling demands of Westminster proper. "Tess and I were hoping you'd be in soon! How was the beat?"

Church sniffed good-naturedly, and passed the heaviest of his burdens to his brother. "Long enough. The gentlemen are showing their appreciation now that it's warmed."

"That's good news, Sam!" Matthew Church was a Constable himself, only his shift was rougher and deeper into the East End. For that reason, he and his wife shared rooms against theirs. "I got a tip today for helping a woman cross the street."

"You didn't take it, did you?"

"Oh, she insisted." Matthew shrugged in one of those what-do-you-do-about-that-sort movements. "Our loving wives are off to get some tea for the eggs; I think they're bored with the children gone."

Church sniffed. This time of year the children were better off in the country with the grand-parents.

"Well, it could be they just wanted to get out and stop looking at me."

"How long have you been home?" Church demanded.

"Not ee'n an hour."

"Well, that would be long enough to see your face." Church had finished wrestling his shoe-laces off; he ignored the friendly slap on his shoulder. In a few moments the brothers were bending over his street-battered uniform, examining each inch for any repair-work or bits that needed cleaning.

"Anything interesting?" Matthew wondered.

"Doubt it'd be as interesting as your twenty mile." Church retorted.

"I doubt it too, but I'm trying not to think about what supper might be."

"We could start on a celery soup. Did Green steal your tin again?"

"Lord, no. He was kept over at the St. James' today."

"St. James? What's he doing all the way over at Haymarket?" Church stopped brushing dried mud from his hem to frown.

"Forgot why, but it's just as well. He was on his way back to his reports when he got into an altercation outside of Pall Mall."

Church listened to his brother, half-report, half-complaint, with half an ear. Matthew picked up the vegetables and with a tiny pen-knife was cleaning the rotten bits off into a pail. "Been an odd enough day. Men shuffled over half of London—at least my half! How was yours?"

"Can't say I noticed…"

"Well, you're too far away from the Thames. That's where all the interesting things happen." Matthew splashed the celery in water, and started on the parsley. Against the home-made wallpaper, his silhouette shaped the attributes of a deranged scarecrow. Their rooms were so small that even the shadows appeared to take up room but they all took pride in sticking together as a family.

"The Irish Twins were off their usual spot by the Threadneedle's corner, and Brook Street just had replacement coppers!"

"I saw Goldie further down the street." Church admitted. "Didn't see nobody else with him."

"He doesn't need anyone else with _him_." Matthew laughed. "That's why Lanner speaks for him. Those Cousin Jacks2 stick together."

Church's earlier fatigue renewed its gravity upon his shoulders. He slumped into his corner chair and removed his uncomfortable shoes while his brother fashioned the handful of vegetables and two of the largest potatoes in their rooms into a pot full of celery soup. Like all children brought up in the country, they knew how to cook—and if necessary, how to go find the ingredients for themselves.

"Just a queer day all around," he heard Matthew mutter. It was unusual to see a cloud pass over his brother's unquenchable chipper humour. "Just a queer day."

"Pardon?"

"…nothing, brother. Nothing." Matthew's face remained a touch clouded and he threw chopped vegetables together to cook into smooth chowder. "Just a queer day…all those men out or shuffled about London like your girl's paper dolls. Probably doesn't mean anything…_probably_ aren't testing us again."

Church rubbed at the throbbing spot on his forehead. "Maybe they are, you know it's about the right time for it. Don't worry about it, Matthew. If we weren't tapped in all that, it should mean something, right? The Yard tests us all the time to see if we've got our mettle. Shouldn't think anything of it."

"I suppose so." Matthew mumbled some more—Church didn't hear it at all over the sudden pop and hiss of the cheap sea-coal against the grate. The sound made him thirsty. He got up and went to the grate to pour up a cup of red tea.

"I had an odd day too. Gentleman nearly got hit from above by a flying brick, got me to make a police report about it and everything!"

Matthew chuckled. "What's he going to do, press charges against the building?"

Church chuckled too, but slowly. "Man was all shook up. Had to go check out the top of the building, but there was no one there but the wind. I s'pose he has his enemies." He hadn't truly thought about that before…not until the words popped out. His hands stilled about his cup as the new consideration came to him. Self-conscious, he went back to his brush and resumed working on a bit of dry mud.

"Going around, then." Matthew leaned back comfortably in his slippered feet, chewing loudly on a scrap of raw potato. "At least, Green wasn't around to nick my tin because he had to take a report. Some bludgeoner was daft enough to take a swing at that Sherlock Holmes fellow."

Church's heavy wool-brush skidded across the back of his uniform on the narrow table, and down the hem. A cloud of fine dust burst into the air. He sneezed, which did a fine job of covering his alarm.

"You bring dust in here, and both the wives will smoke us in the chimney!" Matthew exclaimed.

"Sorry, hand slipped." Church lied. "What was that you just said?"

Matthew told him.

"That's very peculiar." Church muttered. "Because it was Sherlock Holmes who had me write that report up about the brick."

The brothers looked at each other in growing silence.

"You did write the report up." Matthew stated.

"Yes…yes of course." Church stammered. "But I didn't think anything of it…I thought he was just barking. You know how odd he can be at times."

"Well." Matthew said at last. "He is a queer sort—but so is his profession. I'm certain I don't know a fragment of what the man does."

Church pulled out his little notebook and read aloud the details. In light of his brother's gossip, the small story sounded far more sinister.

Matthew nodded when he finished. "All I really know is, a man went up against Mr. Holmes, and got a flatter face for his troubles."

"Serves the fool right. I saw that left hook a'his once underneath Old Nelson!" Church shook his head. "Holmes could kill a man with those fists if he wanted to."

"Ah, but he won't." Matthew dismissed that. "He wouldn't kill anyone. That gun he carries East of Aldgate's more for show."

"You're not helping." Church spoke sharply out of guilt. "This is too much a coincidence, brother."

"We could send a note over." Matthew offered. "Let someone know up front. You know they won't notice anything if it ain't pointed out."

Church sighed. "I'd rather sound like a man caught in fancies than have blood on my hands. Holmes has a rough tongue, but he deals fair and he don't ask for rewards."

"We'll go together." Matthew shrugged. It'd look better."

But when they got to the station, all was chaos. A weary-looking clerk half slumped over his tall desk and greeted them with a pale-faced nod.

"Belt? Is that you under all that?" Church asked timidly.

Beltmaker nodded with a ghost of his usual humour, and pushed aside a paper tower of work. "Been quite a day," he said wearily. "Half our best were pulled off the streets and put on a confidential run to sweep up some bloody gang."

The brothers whistled softly, understanding everything. It was rare that the C.I.D. needed a lot of people, but when they did, things were exciting. "How did it go?" Matthew asked eagerly.

Beltmaker managed to smile. "Everything seemed all nice and normal most of the day…then all of a sudden, coppers start coming in with their Derbies bulging. It's like suckin' em off the streets with a straw!" The elderly clerk was amazed. "They're still coming in, if you can imagine." He caught the envy of his audience. "I take it you two were part of the coppers patrolling and makin' it all look normal."

"We were looking for the Inspector." Matthew began. "Ran into a queer mess today, and we thought he should know about it."

"Well, I don't know where any of those are right now." Beltmaker admitted. "They're in and out of the door like leaves in a rain. But I'll see who I can find."

"Thank you." Church said quietly. Matthew read his expression and nodded. They didn't feel like they were being foolish now, but the troubling sensation had increased. The police couldn't pull in a ring of criminals this successful without outside help. Sherlock Holmes was one of the few willing, and one of the fewer capable.

"Wonder where Mr. Holmes is now?" Matthew muttered under his breath.

**Paddington Street:**

Dr. Watson's practice had closed for the day. No one had darkened his doorstep for nearly an hour. Behind his desk he could hear the lowering murmur of traffic. It was a perfect spring evening, he thought to himself.

The doctor was in a pleasant mood despite the absence of his wife, but Mary had the excellent excuse of visiting her friends in the country whilst passing on to them the little gewgaws she did not want to take to Kensington. She was looking forward to the move as much as he; Kensington was a rise in his career, and the area a better place for Mary's health.

Soon, he reminded himself. Soon they would no longer deal with the hustle and blare of the trains and odd-hour visitors.

His office was trimmed down and freshly cleaned. When they left, the entire building would be in far better shape than it had been when he'd made his first payment!

Watson was still smiling to himself as he went to his desk and settled back to his papers. He was just reaching to the brass dial-calendar by the lamp, thinking to move it to tomorrow's date of April 25, when a familiar and completely unexpected visitor walked through his doorway.

_1 This is far more flour than most people use today. Bread was of the highest importance in diet; higher even than meat at the majority of meals. Even the poorest of the poor might not have meat, but they would at least have bread. Because potatoes (peels and all) were a common additive to the dough, the bread did have some staying power to diners._

_2 West country slang for Cornishmen. It is worth a note that in THE RESIDENT PATIENT, Dr. Trevelyn completely avoids being mistaken as a criminal in the case. Perhaps Inspector Lanner, another Cornishman, was sympathetic to Trevelyn, a fellow Cornishman?_


	4. Chapter 4

_**March 14, 1891:**_

"…_the four-and-twenty hours after the storm attacked us—as ferocious as that of a hamadryad—will live in the dwindling memory of my remaining years. I am aware that in London you had all the "pleasant" concomitants of a snow storm (as if it is automatically an honour and convenience to be within city limits); I both sympathise and envy your position for you were no doubt miserable where you were. There were no conveyances such as cabs or omnibuses at work and I wished nostalgically for the skid-sledded cabs of my youth. Perhaps you remember them from your own youth, John, when winters truly were cooler and not a figment of the old man's memories?_

"_The streets smothered first in deep, muddy snow the colour of pale oysters, and then a pool of dirty slush, which no man seemed even to wish to remove. … only the most miserably and objected, un-poetically short-cut and inadequate means were employed to clear the streets – an easy task, for the snow did not freeze – and to make them passable for the unhappy horses… I tell you in perfect truthfulness, John, that I saw wooden ploughs!"_

John Watson lowered Colonel Hardesty's letter to his desk and exhaled with the gratitude of a man who can finally do this in the privacy of his own home without a cloud of frost drifting across his blotting-paper. For days the storm the world titled "The Great Blizzard" had raged—starting with sound and fury upon the 9th of the month, the day before the unfortunate full moon—

-Watson inevitably glanced at his brass calendar, surprised. Was it only four days ago? He shook his head at the days-old paper and rubbed his hands together in the memory of the chill that had pressed against London. He felt far older than the four days.

They had been fortunate. Devon and Cornwall had been utterly severed from the rest of Britain. At the last count, Watson recalled more than 200 people were dead and more than 6,000 animals.

Their countryside friends, such as Mary's old employer, had written to them with horrors of below-zero temperatures and trees leveled by terrific gales:

"_In some places, the snow is still piled over five yards in height! _

_Roads were impassable and the church hosted the stranded travellers of two full-length passenger trains! We heard from the vicar that the ships of Falmouth harbour ran through the very face of the blizzard for shelter… _

"_But not all of them made it, _

Mrs. Forrester, widow and survivor of four children and three sisters wrote with simple compassion that held no patience for self-pity.

"_It was terrible. Afterwards the countryside grew black with the scurrying movements of small hares and rabbits that had escaped the storm in their burrows. They played amongst the sad corpses of the cattle and horses dead under their cold mantles. It was indescribably, really, to see such a thing and feel only gratitude that something had survived. The gardener found birds frozen to their branches, yet at the base of the same tree, a flock of sea-drakes and hens were perfectly unharmed! In the end I believe we were all in awe of both Nature's terrors, and the wonders of her survivors."_

The doctor sat with the weariness that follows a soldier who only at this point has the luxury of knowing his battle has ended. He could feel the firmness of the padded chair against his back and the pressure of a mended shirt against his old shoulder wound.

Weariness still creased caverns into his brow when he rose at last, and reached for his hat and coat. It was only a moment's work to speak to Mary and he was free to examine the city.

"_John, my boy, you will scarce believe this, but when the winds over the Channel blew over the snow, bits of it thawed so quickly my poor old butler found on one of his jaunts, a bit of tile peeping from the soft earth—tile that the vicar and my own amateur research—calls identical to that of the Rosehill site_.1

And John smiled in recollection, both to be called "my boy" by the avuncular if overly bearing Hardesty, and also because Hardesty's butler was worth quite a few stories in his own right. That poor man…and yet Hardesty could hardly have an ordinary man working for him. Not a perfect butler to be sure, but a remarkable human being.

…

London was a grey city beneath a grey sky and faced by grey seas receiving the greyest waters of all: the Thames, flowing from purer fits and starts from the West. This time of year the land itself was grey; the blue clay that formed the typical London brick baked grey. Grey was his mood, because he was glad to be alive but beaten down from being unaware of the city's next test. For the first time in months he was forced to use his walking-stick for simple balance. On the same token, he was grateful to just be able to move.

Watson prided himself on being clever with numbers, but he could not hope to calculate the tons of snow that had been carted off by weary workers. Even now he had to walk around mismatched and oddly-sized lumps of snow, from cobbles-small to shoulder height. Children found the snow lumps fine mounds on which to wage war. He passed more than one late-evening battlefield where the King of the Mountain had to fight for his throne. While the adult within his breast wanted them to stop and consider the folly of their actions, he also knew the ridiculousness of such actions. These were street-urchins, poor and barely lettered, defiant and legion.

He smiled suddenly, for it came to him that there had been another mound of snow piled in a very similar way upon their kerb at Baker Street. Coming home from his practice he had come across the charming sight of Irregulars romping over the mound like kittens, and above their heads he saw the pale face of his friend smiling down upon the happy melee.

"_There is a fascination to watching the apparent chaos and finding laws and logic beneath," Holmes had said later that evening once they were sitting and digesting a late hot supper. "Can anything look less organised than a pack of children running helter-skelter? And yet they are making perfect sense according to their lights. Like ants they swarm, or perhaps bees. Take a little time to know the language of each and you may be rewarded by the simple accomplishment."_

"_I find charting out the paths of children or insects hardly simple." Watson had chuckled. "But I leave it to your considerable powers of patience_."

"_Patience? Not at all. Am I an example of patience to you? Have I ever? It is curiosity, my good fellow, which is confused for patience. It is a quality with which I am both blessed and cursed." _

Watson paused now, years after this event. He stood amidst rough mountains of dirty snow in light growing swiftly blue in the evening's fall. He remembered that he had laughed at this, shook his head, and pulled out his pipe to add to the smoke.

Watson often passed by Baker Street in the night as he came or went to house or tasks, and each time he looked up in hopes of glimpsing his friend through the window. It was an inevitable reflex; a reassurance that his old friend was still about, and at the same time, homage to their days as financially struggling lodgers.

Tonight there was nothing to see. The windows were cold and still, devoid of life and he knew Holmes was off on one of his cases; that he would return at its conclusion but for nothing less. Watson wondered how the storm had affected Holmes' part of France. If it was worthy of note he was certain to receive it in the post or by a telegram. Experience led the doctor to suspect the weather had been no more than an inconvenience to his friend—if he had noticed it at all.

Watson felt his tired face crease into a smile, and a chill, dank wind brushed against his temples. The past would always seem brighter in places, more cheerful or more sunny—more everything, as his old friend Stamford would have said. And there was some truth to it. When he had stood on his own two feet after Maiwand, it had been in the centre of the Lauriston Gardens mystery. It was in the company of Holmes and (indirectly) Scotland Yard that he looked down and saw to his astonishment that he was standing on his own power, and he felt _alive_…more alive than he had been for perhaps the first time in his life.

The realisation came sharp. He should not have felt that way; he should have measured the supreme moments of his existence within the spheres of family—in the baked desert of Australia, or under the shadow of his father…or at the least, the penumbrance2 of his brother.

Perhaps the proverb rang true, and a man was not truly a man until he had his own hearth and home. Try as Watson may, he could not recollect a higher contentment before the small fire at Baker Street…and later the comforts of his small practice with Mary…

…Holmes of course was the indirect source of this final peace. A path to his bone-deep happiness. Watson's two lives bled together like two water-colours painted on the same paper. He could not separate the one without the other, and least of all when he stood here, underneath the fey crossroads under the lamp at Baker Street.

Holmes' features had been sharp and lean in their younger years. That sharpness had grown more pronounced. When Watson could look up from the kerb on Barker Street, he would see his friend pacing back and forth, back and forth on these nights. That aquiline nose was unmistakable; that receding brow and hard shoulders part of being Holmes.

Watson could see the modern Holmes, but not without a superimposed image of Holmes as a younger man, ten years ago.

He wished he could see either Holmes now.

…

Mary was waiting for him when he made his way home. Before his soles finished scrubbing off the packed crust of blackened ice and soot, she was there with his old slippers and a small hand wrapped about a cup of steaming red tea. For a moment the weary doctor sighed and bathed his face inside that sweet-smelling steam, thinking that the miseries of his late walk had been worth it, if only for coming back to this small domestic bliss.

"Do be careful," Mary chided as she smiled. "You don't want ice-crystals floating in my tea!"

"Not at all, dearest." He pulled the cup away and bent slightly to kiss her smooth cheek. Her skin felt like the smoothest of damask, or, a delicate palimpsest he had been allowed to touch as a boy visiting a monastery outside—

-but Watson stopped the memory before it could finish and put it back in the brain-attic where it belonged.

"What news, my dear?" He asked.

"Precious little," Mary said, and smiled even as she said it. "But you will be most pleased to note that the International Copyright Act has been passed as of the third of this month."

"Really?" He was pleased and surprised. "I suppose the storm kept us from knowing about it sooner."

"Good news for a man who hopes to send his 'humble writings' to other countries, such as India, Afghanistan, Prussia, or perhaps even Saskatchewan."

"You tease me, Mary." Watson chuckled and drew her into the parlour with his slippers. As he tugged them on, he continued to smile. "And what would an Indian Flower know of Saskatchewan?"

Mary sighed. "You make those syllables flow forth so effortlessly," she complained.

"You can speak Tamil, so I can hardly share your self-recriminations."

"Flatterer."

They sat together inside the horsehair embrace of the sofa, listening to the fire crackle. Behind them the thin glass pressed and groaned as the glass dropped.

'Oh, my." Mary's voice, always soft and deep, hushed. "John…look at the weather-case."

Watson turned his eye from the glamour of the fire lapping about the coal, and followed her rapt gaze. Mounted upon the wall in a gleaming glass tube, the viscous liquid inside…was forming slow and silent feathers of crystal. Winter was still here.

"I do hope Mr. Holmes fares better than London."

Watson reached for his wife's small hand. Holmes surprised him every day, but he and Mary shared the same directions of thought.

"I am certain he is well, Mary. He would have said something otherwise."

1 The Rosehill site was a venerated old archaeological site in Surrey.

2 From penumbra—"almost shadow"


End file.
